


Three's a Party

by pantykinksam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adopted Children, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantykinksam/pseuds/pantykinksam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wakes up sticky, Dean's a culinary sex god, and their son really needs a bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's a Party

**Author's Note:**

> There is no significance to the name Bonham, other than the fact that he's named after the drummer of Led Zeppelin, John Bonham. I figured if he's Dean's boy, it's appropriate.

There’s syrup in Sam’s hair and there’s raspberry on the sheets, and this is how Sam wakes up. 

On a typical Sunday, Sam wakes up alone on silk sheets and satin pillowcases, pools of liquid sunlight pouring through the window glass, and Dean’s downstairs making breakfast. 

Sunday’s are waffle mornings, and Dean always wakes up early, his body clock so attuned to the routine that there’s no need for an alarm. 

Besides, alarms mean waking Bonham, and the time spent alone in silence is too precious to risk over a waffle-making wakeup call. 

This morning, though, it couldn’t be later than eight a.m. when Sam jolts awake at cold baby fingers tugging at his hair, the familiar voice of his son tinny in his ear, friggin’ giggling just like his Daddy, if his Daddy ever giggled.

Sam groans, reaching up into the matted mess that was his sex hair, now coated in baby handfuls of raspberry syrup. 

In his sleepy perception, Sam sees Dean cackling on the floor, hands clawing at the carpet as he rolls around in his boxers like he’s being burned alive, in apparently, the humor that is Sam’s catastrophe on the bed sheets. 

The orange glow from the sun behind him helps Sam’s eyes adjust to the scene in front of him, bits of light filtering through his vision and puzzle-piecing together the situation. 

And, here we are. His little boy is covered in flour, cream, and various fruit juices, from his tangled mat of hair, to his pull-up. Wide-eyed and bewildered, Sam just kind of stares for a minute, unbelieving. 

“Mornin’, baby.” Dean croaks in between gasps of breath, on his knees now and red from laughing. 

Behind Bonham’s back, Sam flips his brother off, throwing him the most promising bitch-face he can conjure up at 8 in the morning, somehow amplified by his half-awake state.

“Mornin’, baby,” Their baby mimics, clapping his hands together in Sam’s hair, working on a mohawk made of raspberry seeds and warm butter. Sam is so going to get them back for this. 

Not now, though, because now Sam’s sticky and bitchy (some of which is wearing off, because Bonham always does that to him, somehow) and he really just wants a shower. Bonham scrabbles at the sheets, red-stained palms outstretched for Dad to lift him up. Sighing, Sam hauls Bonham up onto the bed by his armpits and sets him onto the once-clean comforter for support, just in case he takes a spill. 

“Did Daddy put you up to this, kiddo?” Sam grunts, voice softening when he worms his way into Sam’s lap, slapping his naked belly, purple and sugar-sandy. And Sam kinda lets it go for a minute, because their baby really is fuckin’ beautiful, and Sam can’t get enough of that word, their baby, and he’s getting more and more like Dean every day, a devil-child and two year-old sweetheart all at once.

There’s no answer, but there hardly ever is from his kid, only two years old and still soaking things in from the inside, talking only when it’s of importance.

Sam calls it perceptive. Dean calls it rude. Course, the kid can only say like fifty words in general, but still.

His chin resting on the mess of curls on Bonham’s head, he lets the boy reach up from behind with stretched arms and pat Sam’s scruffy chin, delighted to have somewhere to wipe his sticky fingers. 

The boy is facing Dean, who winks at him and gives him a thumbs up. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, handsome, let’s see the damage.” Sam sighs, standing his son up on his lap to turn him around. Kid even has some honey in his ears. He’s literally caked head to toe. Sam moans when he sees the banana in between his toes, shaking his head. 

“You so need a bath,” mutters Sam fondly, kissing Bonham’s nose. He turns to Dean, who’s regained his composure and is handing Sam a plate of waffles now, eyebrows raised. Sam takes the bite offered, and struggles to keep the kid still on his lap. 

“This is… sex,” Sam murmurs between bites, eyes fluttered closed as he practically moans around the fork. Dean is a culinary sex god. “Where’re his glasses?” he asks around the second bite of waffle, feeling better almost instantly. 

Dean grins, leans in for a kiss, the plate held high so a grabby Bonham can’t reach for it. Not that the toddler is interested anyway, already wriggling away to get his bottle of bubble bath. 

“Downstairs, with his clothes. Figured we spend enough on those as it is. Should be clean, if not salvageable.” Dean murmurs against Sam’s jaw, and he brushes a thumb against Sam’s bottom lip, sighing. 

All memory of the morning was gone, and Dean went soft at Sam’s touch, falling onto the bed beside him. An occupied two year old gave them precious time, and they rarely let it go to waste. 

“Mornin’, Dean,” Sam hums, tracing Dean’s wrists with the pads of his thumbs. There’s a sleepy grin on his brother’s face that hasn’t really left all morning, and Sam’s beaming right back.

“Daddy?” echoes through the master bedroom bathroom and drifts back to the brothers, who groan collectively, Dean’s head falling to Sam’s chest, who is now lying against damp sheets again. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m coming,” Dean rasps, and it rumbles through Sam like a song. Sam frowns, goes to kiss Dean’s forehead, misses, then kisses his ear. Dean rolls off the bed dramatically, eyes at the back of his head.

“Duty calls, baby boy,” He salutes, turning on his heels to help his son turn on the bath water. 

The master bathtub of the bunker is about the size of a twin-size bed, ugly and clawfoot, but a privilege to Bonham to bathe in, as his baths usually take place in the one downstairs, significantly smaller, or as Sam put it, safer.

By the time Sam threw on a pair of sweatpants, his boy was already bellybutton deep in soap and bubbles, though the water was only a few inches deep. Sam stood leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and his head tilted to the side, warm smile glued to his face. 

Dean was kneeling in front of the tub in just his boxers, wrestling with the baby to ‘let go of the friggin’ bottle, kid, Jesus Christ!’ as Bonham kept a tight grip on his Thomas the Train Engine bubble bath.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, Bonny-boy, let it up, you’ve got enough - Hey!” 

The kid yanked back the bottle, and his tiny arms flung backwards, propelling him ass-first on the tub floor, and sending the bubble bath flying into Dean’s face, who caught it mid-throw. Instinct sent Sam lunging forward to help his son up, but when he got there, the kid was laughing uncontrollably, echoing, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!”

Sam shot Dean a look. Dean shrugged, dried his hands on Sam’s sweats and stood to his feet.   
“He was gonna learn it sooner or later.” 

Sam sighed his tenth sigh that morning, and hugs Dean to his chest again. “I’m way too old for this.” 

Dean snorts, nestles his chin into Sam’s chest. “Just wait ‘til he learns to drive.” Sam groans. 

The bubbles are dissolving quicker than Sam expected while Bonham splashes and plays, and the water is becoming visible underneath the layer of suds.

He grimaces at the murky brown water, and sinks to his knees beside the tub with a grunt. So much for relaxation. “I’ll take it from here. Just move on to phase 2.” 

“Downstairs?” Dean guesses, rubbing Sam’s shoulders. 

“Specifically the war zone that is probably our kitchen, yeah.” Sam whines, cracking his neck. He gets to work on Bonham’s soaked mop of dark chocolate curls, ringing it out until the water runs red with strawberry. Shakes his head, and glares at Dean, who ducks away snickering.

By the end of Bonham’s bath, the two of them are both drenched in bubble bath, two liters of shampoo, and heavy duty body scrub, and there’s still banana in Bonham’s bellybutton.

“Next time your daddy lets you cook- No, you know what? No more. Tell your daddy I said no more cooking.”

“No more cooking.” Bonham nods, patting Sam’s cheeks, his face set in determination. “No more cooking,” he says again, clapping soap suds onto his dad’s nose. 

“That’s right, baby genius. No more cooking.” 

Sam helps him into his duckie towel with the pockets and the tail, an ugly overwashed little thing that Bonham insists on using after every bath, and ruffles his soggy hair. Eyes twinkling, he dips down to his son’s level and whispers something into his ear. 

He pulls away, standing at full height. “Sound good?” 

Bonny nods, snickering just like Dean, and Sam’s actually a little scared for a minute. 

Together, they head to the nursery, really just a re-furnished old study, Bonham’s naked baby ass waddling ahead. “Slow down, cowboy.” Sam laughs, scooping a shrieking toddler up into his arms, still shirtless and really needing a shower himself. 

He swings him across his back, his feet in Sam’s face and his little fists pounding at Sam’s back until he throws him onto the bed. Sam beams at the folded pair of overalls and t-shirt neatly stacked beside Bonham’s glasses on the dresser. Dean was one step ahead of him. 

“C’mere, monster,” Sam laughs, lunging at him with a fresh pull-up, and pinning him down in time enough to wrestle it over his lashing legs, all the while Bonham shrieking, “No cooking! No cooking!” Like it hadn’t been at least twenty minutes since the topic had been relevant. 

Fuck, this kid was going to be the death of them.


End file.
